


Chances And Choices

by Cris



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:22:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4033324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cris/pseuds/Cris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His son had a completely innate ability to love him, he did it without a single thought, without any fear and that, to Chuck, was almost unbelievable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chances And Choices

Chuck woke with a start and gasped, his eyelids snapping open just for a moment to offer him a brief, blurry glimpse of the ceiling, before they went shut again, his sight refusing to adapt even to the almost imperceptible light coming from behind the closed curtains.

He weakly moaned as he progressively became conscious of the noise that had brusquely forced him to abandon his sleep; the persistent, acute ringing of the alarm caused his head to start pounding, a painful wave of rebellion against each sharp, pungent trill.

Not accustomed to such abrupt awakenings, he refused to open his eyes once more. He simply groaned and uncomfortably stretched one arm in a clumsy, sluggish movement, groping for Blair's body, willing to reach her hand and squeeze it, so that she would have hurried to turn off that infernal contraption and proceeded, instead, to gently get him back to full consciousness, unhurriedly, like she did every morning, by running her fingers through his hair and quietly whispering his name.

Blindly touching the space next to him, where she was supposed to be, he found out that it wasn't occupied; the duvet was barely crumpled and her pillow was cold, definitely unused. The both unpleasant and unfamiliar sense of emptiness beside him obligated him to recall the fact that Blair had left for Paris the day before, which was also the reason he had been awakened by a brutal alarm and not by his wife's delicate hands and soft voice.

That unfortunate insight helped him to slowly come out of his still half-awake state. He heaved a sigh, trying to find the strength to reach for the clock on the bedside table and turn it off.

However, as he attempted to move, he realized that if Blair's side of the bed was indeed vacant and that his arm was free to lay there undisturbed, resignedly lonely and miserable, his other one was instead blocked, rested on a warm, lightweight body curled up next to him.

Chuck suddenly became aware of his son's presence and an indefinite, confused reminiscence from the night came back to his mind straightaway. The nebulous memory of Henry entering the room made his lips curve into a placid smile. He vaguely remembered how the kid had climbed the bed in silence and nestled against him, slipping into the blankets. The king-sized bed was large enough and, with Blair gone, half of it was even empty, but Henry had still chosen to fill up the small space Chuck had left between him and the edge of the matrass.

Without even trying to object, Chuck had just let him, feeling relieved at the idea of having someone to hold. The touch of Henry's arm clinging to his neck, his tiny fingers tightly curled around the collar of his pajamas, had guided him to drift back into a far more peaceful sleep than the one he had fallen into hours before, agitated and annoyed at the thought of being forced to spend the night in an empty bed. Having the necessity to travel frequently, and often to stay away from home for days, he was supposed not to have any problems to adapt to that unpleasant situation, but he still detested sleeping alone; he simply couldn't get used to the feeling anymore.

Chuck lazily opened his eyes and let them fall on Henry, who was soundly asleep with the head rested on the top of his chest, apparently completely deaf to the insistent buzzing noise.

They hadn't changed their position at all while sleeping; Chuck's arm was still securely wrapped around Henry's waist, as if he had instinctively tried to protect him and keep him from falling down the bed, making sure there was enough space for his son to lay comfortably, but, at the same time, that there wasn't any distance between their bodies.

Chuck placed a delicate kiss on the top of his head and deeply breathed him in, sinking his nose into his hair and letting those dark, messy locks lightly tickle his forehead. He smelled like Blair, like shampoo and like something that was uniquely Henry's: a sweet, familiar scent that never missed to warm him and calm him. It meant home to Chuck, safety and, above all, love.

As slowly and carefully as he could, he lifted his arm from the kid's sleeping figure and reached the alarm, letting out a relived sigh once he finally silenced it.

Somehow, as soon as he sensed that Chuck's arm wasn't caringly embracing him anymore, Henry started to feebly whimper in protest, slightly moving his legs to express his still not completely conscious disappointment with that unexpected occurrence.

Chuck smiled tenderly at that scene; he turned on the  _abat-jour_  and brought his hand back on his son's shoulders to stroke them unhurriedly. "Henry," he whispered gently. "It's time to wake up."

Henry didn't open his eyes, but he emitted another whining complaining sound, clinging tighter to Chuck's neck and snuggling, rubbing his cheek against his chest.

Chuck pursed his lips, conflicted between the need to get up and get ready for the day and the desire to stay there, watching his son sleeping tranquil in his arms. He would have kept on contemplating that possibility he knew he didn't have just as an excuse to spend a few more minutes in that safe, warm bubble of peace, but he was interrupted by something else.

A swift, sudden moved next to his feet told him that they weren't alone. He looked down just in time to notice Monkey standing up from his curled up position and stretching.

"Of course," Chuck commented with a lazy half-smile. "You're here too."

To answer him, Monkey lifted up his ears and tilted his head on one side, showing him an affectionate look; he made his way up on his master's legs and started to lick his hand happily as his tail fluttered in the air, a sign that he was surely content to receive the gentle caresses that Chuck was offering him in return.

Then, feeling that Henry was waking up, Monkey started rubbing his muzzle against the kid's face, proceeded to give him a very much enthusiastic good morning as well.

"Monkey, stop," Henry mumbled, his hand lifting and blindly reaching the spot in between the dog's ears to pet it quietly. "Let me sleep."

Being an obedient, docile creature, Monkey listened to what he had been told to do and Chuck found himself laughing softly when he saw him jumping down the bed and then climbing it again on the other side, very satisfied to occupy Blair's empty pillow and to cozy up on the soft, comfortable surface.

If Blair had seen that scene, she wouldn't have been pleased – or, at least, she would have moved some fragile objections, before giving up to the dog's sweetly pleading eyes, just as how she had been obligated to give up to the fact that Monkey was quite literally Henry's shadow: wherever he was, the dog had to be too, which implied that, in this particular case, since Henry had decided to take advantage of his mother's absence to invade his parents' bedroom (something that Blair generally didn't allow him to do), Monkey had simply followed him and became an intruder as well.

"Henry," Chuck placed a hand on Henry's forehead and delicately stroked it to brush some strands off his face, so that he could clearly see his eyes and the way he was fighting to keep them closed, as much as he was trying to repress a smile, pretending to be still asleep. "You don't trick me," his voice drifted into a low giggle when he noticed Henry slightly lifting his eyelids only to quickly shut them again, as he realized that he was staring at him, "I know you're awake."

Henry chuckled and started moving his arms and legs with more energy, stretching. Then, carefully and leisurely, he rolled on one side to place his whole body on Chuck's lap.

"Good morning, dad," he murmured through a yawn, finally opening his eyes to rest them on his father. He kept them opened only for a second, before squinting and rubbing them to adjust to the light.

When Henry's sleepy gaze focused on him again, Chuck smiled. "Good morning to you, invader," he guided his hand on his son's head and caressed his messy hair, trying to smooth it a bit. "Do you want to tell me why you're here and not in your bed?" he asked him, aware that his voice, instead of sounding questioning, had assumed an affectionate, delighted tone, which clearly betrayed his mild attempt to be strict and remind Henry that he was supposed to be in his room.

Henry blinked and bit his bottom lip, briefly looking guilty as he wondered about the best way to answer, before a joyful sparkle made appearance in his eyes. "You were feeling lonely," he eventually explained, his voice still croaky from somnolence, as he leaned his elbows against Chuck's chest to lift himself up a bit from his previously laying position and raised his head. "So Monkey and I decided to come here," his half-asleep pout turned into a sly, tiny smile, "to keep you company."

Impressed by his notable persuasion method, a very confident way of expressing his reasons that immediately reminded him of Blair, Chuck couldn't help but laugh. "I see," spotting another rebel lock falling on Henry's eyes, he grabbed it and carefully tucked it behind his ear. "I shall thank you both, then."

"Yes," Henry nodded. "You could let us have breakfast in bed with you," he suggested. "And tell Ivan to bring us pancakes. With hot caramel," he specified and then hesitated, thinking about his next request for a moment, "and chocolate sauce."

Hearing his son's very detailed demands, Chuck smirked; not only he had just made an accurate list of all the things his mother didn't want him to eat for breakfast, at least not every day, but he was also trying to convince him to ignore a rule that Blair was very strict about. Since she had been trying to keep Henry from " _getting all of his father's –_ supposedly –  _bad habits_ " (Chuck would roll his eyes every time she said that, reminding her that it was a lost battle, considering that she was very much spoiled herself), she usually didn't let him consume the first meal of his day in bed.

Chuck didn't think about himself as an easy person to manipulate – he was actually quite rigid and people hardly tried to play him along, mostly out of fear – but he had to admit that his typical unquestionably solid authority inevitably crumbled in front of his son's face. Henry was perfectly aware of that weakness and understood all of its implications; it basically meant that he could easily get from him everything he couldn't obtain from Blair.

Rationally Chuck knew that he wasn't supposed to encourage such a behavior, but he couldn't help it; it made him feel proud and entertained in equal measure, amazed both by his son's remarkable manipulation skills and by his own inability to tell him no, even if he was indeed conscious that he was being tricked – and successfully – by a six years old kid.

"I don't think your mother would agree with that," Chuck pointed out anyway and, to look serious, he had to contain a very amused smile when he noticed the pensive little frown that suddenly appeared on Henry's face at his answer, as if he had found it rather surprising.

"She wouldn't," the kid puckered his lips and brought a hand under his chin to rub it casually, as his mind worked to find a proper solution to the problem his father had unpredictably brought up. After a few seconds of that surely elaborated pondering, he sighed. "But she won't be back before tomorrow and we don't have to tell her, dad," he simply stated, moving his hand away from his face to place it back on Chuck's chest. "She can't get mad at us if she doesn't know."

Chuck, who had followed his reasoning with deep interest, smirked again. "True. But see, she  _will_  know," he told him, as he pulled the blankets back. He carefully took Henry by his waist and lifted him a little to place him by his side, so that they could both sit up and lean their backs against the headboard. "You underestimate her, Henry," he wrapped an arm around his shoulders, covering their legs with the duvet again, "she has spies."

Henry scowled, an angry pout taking form on his face as he crossed his arms. "Dorota?"

Chuck nodded, bringing his index finger to his lips to silently warn Henry to lower his voice.

As soon as he saw that gesture, Henry smiled brightly, immediately recognizing it as a sign that his father had already decided to satisfy his requests and that now he was just playing with him.

It was one of their favorite games, which consisted in Chuck letting him break one of Blair's established laws and then teaming up with him to "scheme" and make sure she didn't find out about those acts of rebellion – and the fact that she eventually did anyway, every single time, never ruined the fun they had in trying.

"Do we have to buy her silence?" Henry asked in a whisper, looking at Chuck with curious, vivacious eyes.

"No," Chuck chortled at the thought – and at the phrase that Henry had used. "Trust me, I've tried more than once. She definitely can't be bought," he assuredly affirmed and his low, sneaky tone made Henry giggle. "But you could ask her to keep our secret," he suggested him with the same murmuring voice. "I bet you know how to persuade her."

Henry's grin became larger and his eyes opened wide, shining from what he certainly considered a brilliant idea. "I will say  _please_ ," he declared, visibly thrilled and very convinced. "She likes when I do that."

"Good," Chuck gave him a praising, proud look. "It sounds like a great plan to me."

Henry glanced up on his father, full of enthusiasm. "Does it?" he questioned excitedly, glad that his idea had been defined " _great_ ".

"Absolutely," Chuck guaranteed him. "I'm sure it will work perfectly well."

Henry's satisfied face at those flattering words caused Chuck to melt into a smile once again.

He never missed to compliment him, every time he had the chance, even just to see Henry staring back at him with that joyful, utterly content expression; he needed to make sure that his son could always perceive his love and feel appreciated. The kid's visible self-confidence and serenity made him feel less insecure and somehow stronger, as if every single cheerful smile that Henry offered him was a confirm that he wasn't letting him down.

"Now, let me make sure that you'll get your glorious breakfast," Chuck told him and Henry smirked pleased when he saw his father grabbing his mobile phone from the bedside table. "You said that you want chocolate sauce with pancakes, right?"

"Yes," Henry confirmed. He turned and stretched one arm to place his hand on Monkey. "And hot caramel!"

Chuck nodded. Speaking on his phone to inform his valet about the fact that his son was going to eat with him in the master bedroom and about his particular requests for the day, so that both of their meals would have been served together, he kept his eyes on Henry, observing how he was making his fingers run through the dog's hair, absentmindedly stroking him.

He had become quiet all of sudden and his enthusiasm had been changed into a more thoughtful air, that pose Chuck knew he used to assume when he was wondering about something. Noticing how Henry had started to occasionally gaze up on him, giving him rapid, attentive looks before glancing down to fix his eyes on Monkey again, Chuck realized that he was waiting for the right moment to ask him something.

Indeed, as soon as Chuck ended the conversation and put the phone back where it was before, Henry stopped cuddling the dog and turned towards him again; he took a deep breath and an unsure expression took form on his infantile face. "Daddy," he got closer, leaning his head on his chest and snuggling up next to him. "Can I come to work with you today instead of going to school?"

The way Henry had pronounced his question, with such a sweet, adulating voice tone and his eyes innocently fixed on him, made Chuck's eyebrows wrinkle in amusement, unable not to admire once more the attitude Henry was using while trying to coax him. He could always perceive something of himself and Blair in his manners – not only in his way of talking and moving, but also in his way of thinking – and those small, sudden realizations always came with a strong sense of fulfillment and completeness.

However, Chuck had been expecting that exact demand ever since the night before, when, as he tucked him in, Henry had started complaining about how boring school was and how amazing it would have been to spend the day together just them instead.

In that moment Chuck had stalled, pretending not to get the allusion and that the very same idea hadn't crossed his mind as well. He had told himself that he had at least to think about it, but the truth was that Henry didn't even have to ask. If he had to be honest with himself, Chuck knew he had already taken that decision in the instant Blair had walked out the door and now that Henry was directly begging him, with his hopeful eyes and his best imploring face, he simply didn't have any chance of managing to be firm and not give him the permission.

Besides the obvious fact that allowing him to skip a day of school wasn't exactly an example of responsible parenting, he couldn't find a single good reason not to indulge Henry's desire, not when he shared the same wish.

It was a Friday and, considering that he didn't have a particularly busy day ahead of him, Henry's presence wouldn't have been a problem; he had already taken him to the office more than once and the kid knew how to behave.

So Chuck gave up, allowing himself to show the spontaneous grin he had been vainly trying to hide. "Well," he sighed, slightly squeezing Henry's shoulder as he pulled him even closer. "I suppose there is nothing wrong with being a bit permissive from time to time."

Henry's eyes opened wide and a thrilled expression substituted the waiting, supplicating one he had been staring at Chuck with while waiting for him to pronounce himself. "Does it mean I can come?" he asked right away, as he lifted himself up again, to make sure he had gotten the answer right.

He freed himself from Chuck's arm and stood up on the matrass, an unexpected movement that caused Monkey to rapidly abandon the pillow he had occupied and leave the bed, not happy with the possibility of Henry accidentally stepping on his tail.

Chuck let out a soft laugh, completely captured by how excited Henry was at the idea of spending the entire day with him. The clear joy he could spot in his son's dark eyes never missed to amaze him, as much as he was still always surprised to find out that he was one of the reasons behind that happiness; it gratified him completely, in a natural way, like anything else in his life.

"Yes," he assured, taking Henry's hand and pulling him down. "You can."

"Thank you, daddy!" Henry exclaimed, as he let himself fall on Chuck's lap again. He threw his arms around his neck in a transport of enthusiasm and clung to him, sinking his face into his chest and giggling happily. "I promise I won't cause any troubles," he then added, turning his head to look at Chuck, his voice sounding both shy and serious as he declared his good intentions. "I will be good."

Chuck shook his head. "It's okay, Henry," he told him, embracing him with both arms and hugging him tightly to himself. "I know you will. You always do," he kissed his forehead. "You're such a good boy."

* * *

An hour later, as he made his way to the stairs, walking through the corridor, Chuck stopped in front of Henry's room and frowned at the noises coming from behind the closed door.

" _I don't like it, it's all wrong!_ " __  
  
He had sent him to get ready thirty minutes ago, right after he had finished his breakfast. Henry was supposed to be dressed by now, but the tone of his voice – in which Chuck could distinctly distinguish irritation and stubbornness, a clear sign that he was in the middle of a tantrum – didn't sound promising at all.

" _Do it again!_ "

_A bad tantrum_ , Chuck mentally corrected himself. He quickly glanced at his Rolex to make sure they weren't late and then silently opened the door, looking inside before entering.

Sat on the bed there was Henry, glaring at his nanny with crossed arms and an annoyed pout on his lips. The woman, whose name was Miriam, was standing in front of him, holding a small, turquoise tie.

"Henry, we've already undone the knot three times," she was saying. "I'm going to tie it again, but, if you really want to wear it, you'll have to be okay with the result once for all."

Chuck cleared his throat to announce himself and crossed the doorstep just in time to keep his son from replying with anything more than another plainly irritated glance. Both Henry and Miriam turned their heads to look at him.

"What's going on here?" Chuck asked, making his eyes travel between them with a doubtful expression.

The woman rapidly stepped in his direction. "Mr. Bass, Henry asked to wear this," she handed him the tie, smiling patiently, "but he doesn't seem to appreciate my way of tying it."

Henry huffed, staring daggers at her. "Because it's  _wrong_  and it's ugly," he declared and then gazed at his father, showing him a completely desolated expression. "She can't do it properly, dad!"

Chuck forced himself not to laugh in front of his absolutely offended face. Instead, he sighed. "It's okay, Miriam, I'll take care of this," he told her, casually making the tiny silk strip run through his fingers as he directed his gaze on the woman again. "Just pack Henry's Legos and put them in his schoolbag. Check in my office if you don't find them in his playroom; he might have left them there."

She nodded. "Yes, Mr. Bass."

As soon as she left the room, Chuck paced to the single bed, from where the kid was staring at him.

"What's wrong, Henry?" he questioned in in a thoughtful tone as he sat down, unbuttoning the jacket and focusing his gaze on him. "You usually don't treat Miriam like that," he calmly added, resting the tie on the matrass. "You were rude and she didn't deserve it. You'll have to apologize to her."

Henry was incredibly spoiled and he certainly wasn't new to tantrums – he was Blair's son's, after all – but he was rarely impolite, especially not to his nanny. Miriam had been with them for two years now; Henry was absolutely comfortable with her and, being used to her presence, he also respected her, which was why Chuck had recognized that behavior as unusual and as a signal that something was bothering him.

"Okay, I will," Henry shrugged, shaking his head a little. "But she can't tie a nice knot," he glanced down to his feet and heaved a sigh. "Not as nice as yours."

"That is easily fixable," Chuck got closer, bowing his head down to try to catch Henry's gaze and putting a hand on his shoulder. "I can make a perfect knot for you. But first, tell me, why a tie?" he suspiciously asked, thinking about the vast collection of bowties that Henry had jealously stored in several drawers of his closet. He also had ties, they fascinated him, but he rarely asked for them. "I was under the impression that you liked bowties more."

Henry started to move his legs, nervously making them swing beyond the edge of the bed. "I do," he said in a small voice. "But you never wear bowties for work. I want to look just like you for today," he finally explained and then paused, in search of the right word to express his thought. " _Professional_."

That statement made Chuck's heart fill up with emotion and he shyly glanced down. It happened whenever Henry tried to imitate him, even when it came to something as simple and superficial as clothes.

At first, Chuck had been worried about it, asking himself if it was right. As a child, he hadn't had a choice; emulating his father had been his only possibility. Bart had dictated that he had to look like an adult –  _act_  like an adult,  _think_  like an adult – and, although his father could go on for days without even conceding him a single peek, Chuck had never dared to divert from that pattern, too afraid of the possible consequences. Everything he tried to do to please him, including following a certain strict dressing code, was done out of fear.

He had inevitably grown into someone who didn't feel at ease wearing anything that weren't elegant clothes and his taste had been built on that assumption, but he definitely didn't want that for Henry, at least not for the same reasons.

Thus, when his son had started asking to wear suits and similar outfits, Chuck had vacillated and interrogated him about the motives behind that wish. It wasn't usual for kids to wear that kind of clothes, he had explained him, but, as it often happened, Henry had been able to put an end to his apprehensive overthinking with some simple yet incisive and convincing words. " _Because you are amazing and you always wear them_ ," he had affirmed, in such a genuine and serene way, shrugging, as if the answer was obvious – and, to him, it certainly was. " _And because they're beautiful!_ "

That reply, which, Chuck had realized, was so distant from the one he would have given if he had been asked the same question at Henry's age, had made him realize that his son's desire to imitate him didn't come from anything but love and admiration. Henry was completely happy with his choices; not even starting to attend school and noticing that other children didn't wear the same things as he did had made him change his mind about it.

Still, even if the thought of Henry wanting to look like him fulfilled him, Chuck didn't want him to feel any kind of pressure. "You know you don't have to worry about it, Henry," he indeed took the chance to remind him, guiding his hand to the kid's chin. He trapped it between his thumb and index finger and delicately lifted it up, to make Henry fix his eyes on him again. "You can wear whatever you want."

"I know," Henry stared at him with an unsure look on his face. "You always tell me that, but –"

"I wore a bowtie last week," Chuck anticipated him, realizing that using himself as example was the best way to make Henry stop feeling insecure. "Twice, actually."

The kid blinked, surprised by that answer. "Really?" he asked suspiciously.

"You can ask Ivan if you don't believe me," Chuck promptly said and he smirked when he saw Henry narrowing his eyes in a pose that perfectly resembled Blair's face when she thought he was hiding something from her. "I'm sure he remembers, because he couldn't find the one I had demanded him to bring me."

Not finding a pretext to keep on doubting his father's words, Henry pursed his lips. "But you're wearing a tie today," he retorted, indicating the dark purple one on his father's neck before crossing his arms again. "I want a tie too."

"Okay," Chuck grabbed the tie he had leaned next to him on the bed. "Then let me help you tying it," he stood up and bent down on his knees in front of the kid, ready to grant his desire. "Which knot do you want me to make?"

Unexpectedly, before he could do anything more than placing the small loosen tie under the collar of Henry's shirt, his son grabbed his wrist and stopped him. "No, dad, wait," he muttered. "I don't think want it anymore."

Chuck's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Why not?"

Henry seemed to be somewhat mortified, as if he was about to tell some unforgivable secret. Chuck stared at him in worry, waiting for him to answer, as he tried to decipher his suddenly sad expression.

After a few seconds, when the kid remained silent, he sat back next to him. As soon as he got the chance to, Henry crawled to his father's lap, placing himself on his keens and hiding his face against his chest, something he used to do every time he was upset.

Understanding that he felt ashamed and that he needed a moment to calm down, Chuck simply wrapped an arm around him; he stayed still and silent, attentively focused on Henry's rapid breaths. Then, after a while, he started stroking his back to gain his attention. "Henry," he called him. "Look at me and tell me what's the matter."

Hearing a firm note in Chuck's voice, Henry turned his head and shyly fixed his gaze on him, finally allowing him to see his face. His cheeks were flushed and he looked like he was about to cry. "I'm six, I should be able to do it without help," he admitted in a weak voice as he lowered his eyes again, trying to avoid Chuck's stare. "But I can't."

Hearing those words, Chuck sighed in relief, both because the problem wasn't serious – at least it wasn't compared to the worrying scenarios that, seeing Henry upset, had inevitably crossed his mind (Blair would have told him that he was paranoid) – and because, being aware of how proud and stubborn his son was, he felt thankful knowing that Henry had still found the courage to confess him what he recognized as an intolerable weakness.

It wasn't really about the tie itself, or the knot. What really bothered Henry was that he had to ask for assistance to do something that he considered very much important; not being able to achieve what he wanted by his own was, to his independent and obstinate personality, absolutely unacceptable.

A caring smile spread across Chuck's face. With his free hand he carefully caressed Henry's cheek, bringing him to glance up. "There is nothing wrong with not being able to tie the knot," he told him, when he got to look at his son in his eyes. "It's not that easy, I couldn't either when I was your age. In fact," he lowered his voice, as if the room was full of people and he only wanted Henry to hear what he was saying, in the most intimate way that he managed, "I had to learn by myself, so I couldn't do it properly till I was nine. My valet used to tie it for me."

A dubious look appeared on Henry's face. "But you can make a flawless one now, the best I've ever seen," he objected, sniffing, repressing the frustrated unshed tears that were still wetting his eyes. "I want to learn."

"Then you will," Chuck stated, holding him tighter. "I can teach you. I'm sure you'll become a master at tying knots, even better than me."

A tiny smile briefly curved Henry's lips at that promise. Though, noticing how he still didn't seem to be convinced, Chuck offered him a reassuring look. "What about we make a pact?" he proposed and, at the mention of the word " _pact_ ", Henry's eyes opened wide, full of curiosity. "No ties until you learn how to do it by yourself," Chuck declared, smirking pleased at how his son's uncertain expression progressively lighted up with interest as he went on with his proposal. "We will practice every night after dinner and when you feel secure enough we'll go on shopping and get you as many ties as you want."

He gave him a challenging glance, knowing that what Henry really wanted was to be autonomous and that the best way to make him feel secure and proud was to provoke him. "Deal?"

Henry's small smile immediately turned into a satisfied grin. He pulled himself out of Chuck's hug and stood up, before proceeding to remove the still loosen tie from his neck. "Yes," he proclaimed, handing it to his father in a rather pompous way, as if that gesture was an official sign that they had an agreement. "Deal."

Indulging him in those solemn manners, Chuck took the tie and , with an absolutely serious expression, he carefully placed it on the bedside table.

He then checked on the time once again and, realizing that they were now running late, he stood up, rapidly buttoning up his suit. "We really need to go now, Henry," he told his son, patting on his shoulder. "Choose a nice bowtie, go get your schoolbag from Miriam and apologize to her. I'll wait for you downstairs."

He playfully ruffled Henry's hair and, as he started walking to the door, he heard him sighing – the kid had surely brought his hands to his head to fix the locks that had fallen on his eyes – and running to the other side of the room.

"Dad,"

Chuck was already halfway to the door when Henry called him again and, understanding from his voice that he was about to ask him something, he patiently turned to see him standing in front of the dresser, his eyes absently fixed on the drawers he had opened to pick a bowtie and a pensive look on his face, as he elaborated whatever idea was running through his mind.

"Yes, tell me," Chuck moved a few steps back in his son's direction. "What is it?"

"You said you had to learn to tie the knot by yourself," Henry stated in a unconvinced tone, glancing up on his father and frowning a little, like he used to do whenever he was absorbed by some thoughts that he couldn't understand completely. "But why? Didn't your dad teach you how to do it?"

The words hit Chuck like a bolt from the blue. Although it wasn't the first time that Henry expressed his curiosity about his grandfather, those questions never missed to leave him floored and make him feel completely exposed, especially when Blair wasn't there to give him a way out. They weren't unexpected, at least not anymore, but Chuck still never felt prepared to face them.

Henry didn't know much about Bart; there weren't pictures of him in their house and they hardly ever mentioned him. All they had told him, when he had first asked, was his name, the fact that he had been married to Lily and that he had passed away. They had showed him a photo (which Chuck kept hidden in his home office, closed in a drawer) and thought that it was all he needed to know. For a while, Henry had been completely satisfied with that explanation but, lately, growing up and becoming somehow more attentive and intuitive, his interest had matured and it wasn't unusual for him to ask that kind of queries.

They were never very direct, Henry had never specifically asked Chuck to talk about Bart. As in this case, he always approached the topic in a vague way, cautiously, as if he could sense that there was something odd about the way his father tried to divert from the conversation every time, giving him short, elusive replies – which was a bizarre fact to him, because Chuck was usually ready to eliminate his doubts with very satisfying answers when it came to anything else.

Chuck knew that he would have had to give him a real explanation sooner or later and he could tell by instinct that the time to do it had arrived; Henry had started to put together all of those fragments in a confused puzzle and Chuck didn't like it. He wanted to fill the holes of his uncertainties with honesty and clarity, but, still, he had been trying to postpone that moment, not only because he didn't want to disappoint him with a sad story, but also because he himself didn't feel ready to explore the subject.

He hadn't in a very long time. Chuck had closed Bart and any memory he had about him in a corner of his mind and still struggled to keep it there, away from the life he had built for himself and for his family. It was poison and he didn't want Henry to experience neither a bit of that toxicity, not even through his words. Just having to answer to such a simple and innocent question made him feel hurt and somewhat guilty, because he didn't have any sweet memories to offer, he didn't have an happy tale to tell and he knew that, somehow, that was the kind of truth that Henry was expecting from him, something he could relate to and that would have made his big eyes sparkle with cheerfulness and curiosity.

He wished he had. He wished – ironically – that he wasn't wearing a tie, so that the lump in his throat would have been easier to swallow and the words would have left his mouth without difficulties.

Instead, he had to blink and take a deep breath before being able to speak. Staring at his son and noticing the perplex expression with which Henry was now looking at him, probably wondering if he had said something wrong, Chuck forced a smile and approached him.

"No, he didn't," he told him and, when he was close enough, he placed his hands on the kid's shoulders from behind. "Your uncle Jack showed me how to do it once, though," he said in a jovial tone and leaned forward to be closer to Henry's ear, distracting him with something that he knew that was going to amuse him. "But he wasn't very patient."

Suddenly entertained by the information his father had just revealed, Henry chuckled. "That's funny," he said with a giggle. "Uncle Jack doesn't sound like a good teacher."

"He certainly isn't," the sound of Henry's laugh made him feel lighter and he melted in a titter as well. "But we won't tell him, it would hurt his pride. He still thinks that the credit for me learning belongs to him," he squeezed his shoulders one more time. "I'll be in the foyer waiting for you," he said and smiled warmly at his son before starting to pace to the door again. "Just don't take too long, we're already late."

Crossing the doorstep, as he heard Henry exclaiming " _I'll be super-fast, dad!_ ", Chuck heaved a sigh and closed his eyes, letting some of the tension fade away. It was going to be a good day, he told himself.

* * *

By the early afternoon the large Persian carpet laid on the parquet of Chuck's office to adorn the area in front of his desk had been entirely conquered by a titanic army of Lego pieces, an ensemble of the set brought from home and the one Chuck kept there just in case; Henry had spread them all over its surface, proudly attesting that, if he wanted to build an empire, then he needed all of the possible space.

He had been dedicating himself to that ambitious project ever since they had come back from lunch and now, after an hour of work, he was sitting with crossed legs and looking at the three towers he had erected in the middle of the rug, scanning them with narrowed eyes, too concentrated to notice that his father was watching him and silently enjoying the scene.

Chuck had looked up from his laptop five minutes ago to check on Henry, to make sure that he was okay, but what was supposed to be a quick peek had instead turned into a deep contemplative staring.  
Resting his eyes on Henry, he had completely lost the will and even the ability to focus on anything that wasn't his son moving on hands and knees on the carpet with an adorably absorbed expression printed on his face.

His lips curled in an amused smile when he saw Henry adding another squared piece on the top of one of the buildings; the pensive look on the kid's face faded to be replaced by a small, complacent smirk – indicating that he was finally content with his job – and Chuck sighed quietly, secretly wishing that he could join him and play with him.

"Dad," Henry suddenly directed his gaze from the Legos structures to his father and grinned when he noticed that Chuck's eyes were already on him. "What do you think about my towers?" he questioned, sitting up on his knees. "Do you think they're high enough?"

"Definitely," Chuck avowed, nodding. He flexed his head, leaning beyond one side of the desk to get a better view of Henry's work. "They're perfect. They may be the best you've ever built."

Henry frowned. "You say that every time," his eyebrows furrowed even more to show suspect. "How is it possible?"

Chuck had to repress a giggle at that objection, knowing that he couldn't laugh if he didn't want Henry to get offended; he had spoken in a very resolute voice tone, which meant that he wanted to be taken seriously, so Chuck limited himself to smirk, taking the chance to appreciate once again the incredible mix of intelligence and susceptibility that his son was - something that he had definitely inherited both from him and from Blair.

"It's possible because you always manage to outdo yourself," he explained, closing the notebook and setting it aside, delighted to see a genuine beam making appearance on Henry's lips at the compliment.

Chuck would have kept on spending praises and Henry would have gladly continued to listen to them, but they were interrupted by a knock on the door, which drew their gazes in its direction just in time to see it opening, before Chuck could say " _Come in_ ".

Jack barged into the office. He made his entrance, walking briskly to the desk, bypassing the greetings without ceremony. "So, these are the documents you wanted me to sign," he said, keeping his eyes on the manila folder he had in one hand and shaking it slightly to indicate it. "And this," he lifted the long, cylindrical container he was holding with the other, "this is —"

He stumbled before he could finish the sentence, losing the equilibrium in an unusually clumsy way for the character. He ended up having to support himself on the edge of the desk not to fall. His shocked gaze went immediately to the floor, allowing him to identify the object guilty of tripping him; once he recognized a bright yellow Lego next to his shoe, his gaze started following a trail of similar pieces and eventually stopped on Henry, who was still sitting on his knees and now laughing at his great uncle.

The kid instantly turned his head towards Chuck. "Uncle Jack almost fell," he stated through his laughter, absolutely entertained by that surely rare – if not unique – occurrence. "So weird!"

"Ah, yes," Chuck made an effort to stop laughing as well and then sighed in a rather theatrical way. "That's what happens when you're impolite and you don't wait for permission to enter in a closed room," he guided his stare on Jack, showing him a derisive sneer. "The universe has its way of punishing rudeness, which is something that uncle Jack still struggles to understand."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Very funny," he tried to gain back composure, running a hand through his hair and fixing his jacket. Ignoring his nephew's blatant mocking expression, he rested the folder and the container on the tabletop and looked down at the youngest Bass. "Your father has a brilliant sense of humor. What are you doing here, kid?" he asked, frowning. "Aren't you supposed to be at school, instead of attempting on my life with those…" he paused and gestured towards the Legos on the rug, " _diabolic things_?"

Henry chuckled. "They're just Legos, uncle Jack, they're harmless," he shrugged, "I need them to build my empire, see?" he indicated the towers next to him, gazing away from his uncle to look at them proudly. "Dad said that my towers are perfect."

An oblique smile crossed Jack's face. "Impressive," he commented and the kid answered to his remark with a pleased smirk. "You're precocious, Hen. So young and already interested in real estate."

Henry blinked. "What's real estate?" he asked, staring at Jack curiously. "What does it have to do with my towers?"

"It means proprieties, Henry. Lands and buildings," Chuck answered, anticipating his uncle. "It's nothing that you have to worry about, though. Uncle Jack was just joking."

Spotting a little bit of disappointment on his son's face at the lack of details in his reply, he smiled at him. "Why don't you start constructing another tower?" he proposed. "An higher one, maybe. I really want to see if you manage to make a skyscraper."

The challenge immediately made Henry's eyes shine from enthusiasm and a grin spread across his face. "I will," he declared, starting to gather the pieces disseminated all around him. "It will be  _so_  giant!"

Chortling at the scene, Jack took one the chairs placed in front of the desk and pushed it back to sit down. "I see that the little devil played you along and convinced you to make him skip school," he heaved a sigh as he crossed his legs and made himself comfortable on the seat. "If only people knew that  _The Great Chuck Bass_  is a softie," he looked at Chuck with raised eyebrows, sniggering. "It's hilarious."

Purposely disregarding the last comment, Chuck reached out to the folder Jack had brought and opened it. "Henry is  _not_  a ' _little devil_ ' and he didn't manipulate me," he answered absently, reading rapidly as he leafed through the documents. "Blair is in Paris for business and I decided to take him with me," he glanced up on his uncle from behind the papers. "Any problems?"

Jack made an affronted face and rolled eyes again. "None, of course," he pronounced the words harshly, letting a bit of offence show through. "Aside from the fact that you could have told me. I would have arrived earlier, maybe had lunch with you two. I've been so busy that I've barely seen this young Bass lately."

He glanced over his shoulder to wink at Henry. "Your father  _enslaved_  me," he complained dramatically. "He makes me work too much."

Henry, who had raised his eyes from his newborn construction to look at him skeptically, tilted his head on one side. "But you've just got here," he questioned the older man's statement. "It's afternoon. Me and dad arrived at 9 this morning."

Before Jack had the time to process the words and elaborate a proper answer, he turned his back on him to collect some Legos behind him. He simply got back to his building activity, showing that, since he had already made his objection and succeeded in silencing his uncle, he clearly he wasn't interested in the conversation anymore.

Chuck snickered. "Good point," he put down the folder just in time to see the older man turning his head towards him with a both surprised and confused frown showing on his brow. "He gets smarter every day, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, if you put it that way," Jack snorted, his pursed lips now hiding amusement. "I'd say he gets more like you every day."

A visibly arrogant smirk lighted up Chuck's expression with pride. "Is there a difference?"

"Anyway," shaking his head, Jack ignored the question and its rhetorical meaning. "As I was saying before the Legos invasion and your son interrupted me, these are the plans for the Moscow hotel," he pushed the cylindrical container he had delivered, making it roll to the other side of the desk towards his nephew, who had to stop it with the palm of his hand to keep it from falling, "with all the changings you've demanded, which, may I say, confirm that your perfectionism has reached new worryingly neurotic levels. I didn't think it was possible."

Chuck dismissed that sarcastic observation with a slightly peeved glance.

Half an hour later Jack had left the office. The plans he had brought had been pulled out from the container, unrolled and laid down on the tabletop; Chuck was now scanning them, standing, supporting himself on the desk with his hands placed on its edge.

Taking a moment to sip the drink he had poured himself some minutes before, he glanced at his son, who was still busy with the assembling of his magnificent skyscraper. He couldn't help but smile once again in front of the evident satisfaction that the kid's face let show through.

It was blatant how Henry was completely at ease in that environment; he looked content, peaceful and that simple fact, the naturalness and the spontaneity with which his son moved around the room without hesitations, felt incredible to Chuck.

That palpable tranquility was so far and different from anything he had ever experienced in that place.

His six years old self had been absolutely terrorized by it. Although the childhood memories he had in there weren't many, in all of them he was immobile, in silence, sitting on a chair and tensely waiting for his father to talk to him.

Time and life had made those reminiscences somehow consoling blurry and remote, but, even now, he distinctly remembered the anxiety of wanting to prove to Bart that he hadn't made a mistake allowing him to stay there. The few times his father had taken him to  _Bass Industries_  had felt like a miraculous occasion to Chuck, a test that he couldn't afford to fail, something that he had to deserve; he wouldn't have risked to say a word or move, because if he behaved, if he stayed quiet and almost invisible, then maybe Bart would have rewarded his good conduct with some explanations about his work.

Back then, nothing was more precious to Chuck than those words. They were a rare gift, the only way he had to connect with him. He would have assimilated them avidly, knowing that he needed to understand them, because his father wouldn't have repeated them twice, but expected him to learn and remember. As a kid, every time he had set foot into that office, Chuck had told himself that he had to prove that he was prepared, that he had to show that he was smart and capable, if he wanted to earn Bart's consideration.

Even growing up and becoming disenchanted and resigned to the fact that his father's approval was out of his reach (he didn't merit it, he was a failure, a hopeless disappointment), Chuck had always felt oppressed between those walls, constantly under pressure, and for a big part of his life he had thought about that room as the sign of his being worthless: it had been the representation of everything he had to be but couldn't be, of what he supposed to reach, but wasn't good enough to achieve.

He didn't have a single memory in that office that didn't associate with a bitter sense of anguish and fright, insomuch as, when he had definitely inherited it and made it his, years before, he had succumbed to the unescapable need to turn it around entirely not to feel weak in there.

Henry, instead, loved it; he acted like if it was simply an extension of his house. It was a safe place to him, somewhere where he felt free to forget his toys, to leave traces of his passage by hanging his drawings to the wall and where he could always find colored markers ready for him to paint if he wanted. There were pictures of him on Chuck's desk, of his mother and his loved ones; nothing about that room was unfamiliar or intimidating to him.

He understood that it was the place where his father worked and he was respectful, but that idea didn't threaten him, it fascinated him instead; he never hesitated to ask questions and show his curiosity, which, to Chuck, was reassuring. It reminded him that he was succeeding in being the kind of parent he had promised himself he would have been, someone who his son could trust and always feel at home with.

The sound of the phone ringing shook Chuck away from his thoughts and drew his attention, obliging him to answer. He sighed in annoyance when his secretary informed him that Jack needed him – again, he thought irritated – in his office.

Hanging up, he reluctantly placed the glass back on the desk and stood up, his eyes resting on Henry once more. He rapidly stepped in his direction and reached the point where the kid was sitting.

"How is it going?" he asked him, leaning forward to observe the structure his son had raised. "It looks like it's already higher than the other towers."

Henry nodded absentmindedly, taking a moment to pick a piece to add to the tower before answering. "It's almost done," he looked up on his father and offered him a bright smile. "Do you like it?"

"I love it," Chuck bent on his knees. He gave the kid a caress on the head. "Henry, I need to go talk to your uncle. Do you want to come with me?"

"Nope," Henry immediately brought his attention back on his skyscraper, fixing his eyes on it with a deeply concentrated expression. "I'm building! Can I wait here?"

"Of course, if you prefer," Chuck, who, knowing his son and his absolute commitment to his dear Legos, had expected that answer, smirked. "I'll be back in 10, 15 at the maximum. Call —"

"Call secretary if I need anything and don't touch stuff on your desk. Yes," Henry inhaled a deep breath and huffed, "I know, dad."

"Smart kid," laughing quietly, Chuck ruffled his hair, which made Henry sigh and shake his head, not pleased to have locks falling messy on his face. Aware that he hated it, Chuck promptly fixed them, pushing them back behind his ears. "Do you want to eat something?" he asked, checking on his watch and noticing that it was almost time for his afternoon snack. "Just, don't ask me ice-cream," Chuck preempted the kid's request and giggled at the disappointed pout suddenly born on his lips. "You've already had enough desserts for today."

They reached a compromise agreeing on strawberries yogurt. Chuck demanded his secretary to bring a cup of it and waited for her to deliver the snack before leaving the room.

He came back a quarter hour later and found Henry at his desk, his tiny body looking even smaller lost on the large seat. He was sitting on the edge of the chair and, barely reaching the tabletop in height, he had stretched his neck as much as he could to be able to observe the papers and the plans laid in front of him. He was so focused and so clearly captivated by what was under his eyes that he hadn't even noticed that his father had opened the door and entered the room.

Chuck looked at the scene stunned and stayed still, contemplating it in silence.

He wasn't the kind of man who got easily impressed, he had experienced so many things through the years that he often felt like he had lived two lives already, but Henry never missed to surprise him, even in the smallest things. His son was biting his bottom lip, his head slightly bent on one side and his brow furrowed in a perplexed expression, and Chuck felt like he was witnessing something absolutely incredible, a precious moment, so perfect in its simplicity to leave him amazed.

Some more seconds had to pass before he decided to break Henry's concentration and let him know he was there. "Did you find anything interesting there?" he asked, walking towards the desk, careful not step on the few Legos still spread on the carpet.

The kid flinched and immediately glanced up to see Chuck approaching him. He instinctively made a guilty face. "I didn't touch anything, dad!" he exclaimed to justify himself. He swiftly climbed down the chair and ran towards him. "I was just looking, I promise!"

Chuck leaned forward and slightly bent on his knees, ready to embrace him. Once Henry reached him, he took him in his arms, picking him up from the ground. "Are you sure you didn't move anything?" he questioned, looking at him straight in the eyes.

Henry nodded. "Sure," he clung to Chuck's neck, "I just wanted to see how plans for a  _real_ building look like," he explained, lowering his eyes for a moment. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Chuck smiled wider at the pout on Henry's lips. "Never apologize for being intrigued by things you don't know, Henry," he lightly tapped the tip of the kid's nose with his index finger, making him glance up and chuckle timidly. "There's nothing wrong with it; all the smart people are."

Still carrying him in his arms, Chuck stepped a few paces to the desk and sat down on his chair. Henry made himself comfortable on his knees and, once happy with his position, he sighed. "Maybe I'm not very smart, dad," he said quietly. "I couldn't really understand those," he glanced at the papers and shyly kept his eyes on them. "They're so complicated."

Those words made Chuck frown. "Hey," he lightly squeezed Henry's arm, trying draw his attention. "That doesn't mean you're not smart," he said firmly when his son directed his gaze back to him. "Being curious is always a good thing and if you have some questions you can ask, but don't feel bad about not understanding. It's okay, you don't have to. No one expects you to."

"But I want to build real towers and hotels and other stuff too when I grow up," toying distractedly with Chuck's tie, Henry expressed his wish in a dreamy voice, a hopeful smile on his lips and his lively eyes now sparkling. "And become just like you."

Something about the genuine adoration that could read in his son's face, the benevolent, loving way he had of looking at him, as if he was the most amazing man in the world, made Chuck glance down.

He had never hidden himself from Henry and never tried, as much as it had been possible, to show himself as different from what he was and yet, at no time, in spite of all of his flaws and weaknesses, the kid had stopped seeing him as his hero, the one person to look up to and worship.

Chuck had thought that he had been lucky enough to know unconditional love in life, he had experienced it through Blair and through the way she had  _chosen_ to accept him completely and want him without any reserves, but becoming a father had taught him that kind of love could hold a different meaning, an unexpected and somehow deeper one. It wasn't about choices; the relationship he had with Henry was natural and instinctive. His son had a completely innate ability to love him, he did it without a single thought, without any fear and that, to Chuck, was almost unbelievable.

Sometimes he wondered if he deserved it. His most visceral and impulsive answer was that no, he didn't, that he wasn't worthy of what he had reached, but then he always took his time to rethink, to remember Henry's beam and his clear happiness, and, as in that moment, he found the confidence to raise his eyes and smile.

"Well, you're still too young to know what you want to do with your life, but, one day, if you still want that, you'll take my place."

As soon as he made that promise, the kid's eyes opened wide and Chuck saw him gasping in excitement, waiting for him to keep on. Staring at his son, a brief image on a grown up Henry sitting at his desk came to his mind and he felt his heart swelling with irrational pride, his insecure smile unconsciously turning into a wide grin.

Chuck couldn't deny that, ever since Henry was born, he had been living with the strong feeling that nothing was just about him anymore, not even  _Bass Industries_. It was the legacy he would have left to his son and that thought had inspired him and made him want to improve himself, to become even greater, to accomplish more – both professionally and not – and to do it for Henry. He had become his most powerful motivation, even bigger than his always greedy ambition.

But, even if Henry following in his footsteps was probably the last big dream he had, he still didn't want him to feel like he  _had_  to become something, even when  _he_  was that something. He wanted him to have the possibility to decide for himself, the one he had been denied.

Chuck didn't have regrets. He knew that, although he had been somehow raised – or, better, trained – to follow it, the path he had walked on was the right one for him. It had been an imposition and he had been forced to come to terms with his role and with its implications and responsibilities when he was just a boy, far from being ready, but, now that he had grown into a solid man, he recognized that he was talented, brilliant at what he did. He loved it, it suited him perfectly; he couldn't see himself doing anything else.

Still, he wouldn't have been able to tell if the satisfaction he got from his job didn't come from the fact that the will and the determination to reach certain goals had been installed in his mind even before he had memory of it. He had become, at least in that field of his life, what he was  _supposed_ to become and lived up to the expectations, maybe even outdone them, but he was going to do his best to make sure that Henry always felt like he had the opportunity to choose.

Chuck cupped the kid's cheek with his hand and lightly stroked it. "But you won't become like me, Henry. You're something unique, something special and that will never change. You'll be great, no matter what you choose to do."

Henry stayed in silence, staring at him with interest. Chuck sensed that he was trying to decipher the meaning of his words and, when a smile curved the kid's lips, he understood that it wasn't really relevant if his son hadn't exactly comprehended them; he knew that he had still perceived their importance and warmth.

He decided in that moment that he wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon feeding Henry's curiosity, showing him the plans he had been so charmed by. He asked his secretary not to be disturbed; nothing, after all, was more important than answering to his son's many, enthusiastic questions.

* * *

The rest of the day had passed smoothly. After looking over the plans together, Chuck and Henry had Skyped with Blair from the office, giving her a chance, considered the time difference, to tell them goodnight before it was time for her to sleep.

Although Chuck would have liked to have a longer conversation with his wife, asking her something more significant than how she was, what time she was going to set off the next morning and how everything had gone with her meetings, Henry had completely monopolized her attention and spent a good half-hour telling her all about what Chuck had explained him regarding " _real buildings_ ".  
Neither of them had found the strength to interrupt the kid's passionate monologue, they had just let him talk, till they reluctantly had to end the video call.

Father and son had left  _Bass Industries_ shortly after. The plan was to go directly back home, but Chuck had let Henry convince him to pay Lily a visit. She had been so thrilled for that unexpected surprise and delighted by the fact that they had brought her a beautiful white roses bouquet (Henry had insisted on stopping by to buy her flowers, claiming that he wanted to be ' _a real gentleman_ ') that she had invited them to stay for dinner. Predictably, as it often happened, Chuck hadn't been able to say no neither to his son nor to his step-mother and ended up agreeing.

A couple of hours later he hadn't regretted that decision. By the time they had gotten back home, around eight-thirty, he had been tired but surely content; as he had told himself that morning, it had been a good day, ended in a lovely pleasant evening. Chuck was now in bed, completely relaxed and enjoining the company of his son.

Not surprisingly, Henry hadn't felt the need to ask for permission to sleep in his parents' bedroom; stepping out of his bathroom, after having granted himself the luxury of a reinvigorating bath, Chuck had found him – together with a curled up Monkey – already there, cozied up between cushions and waiting for him to join him with a cheerful, yet already somnolent smile. Again, Chuck hadn't found any good reasons to object. He had simply made himself comfortable next to him and nestled him under his arm, grabbing his iPad to check on e-mails, following his habitual routine.

Henry had insisted on remaining seated; declaring that he wasn't sleepy  _at all_ , he had obstinately piled up several pillows and rested his back against them, careful to assume posture that would have allowed him spy on whatever his father was looking at.

Now, after having kept on glancing furtively at the tablet for some minutes, Henry had finally grown weary of not having all of Chuck's attention. He sighed nervously and grabbed his father's free hand, the one which he had rested on his shoulders, squeezing it lightly. "Daddy," he called him, automatically rubbing his eyes to get rid of the inevitable somnolence he had been trying to fight till that moment. "What are you doing?" His words trailed off with a deep breath and then yawn.

Chuck looked up and directed his gaze to his unpleased and tired son, smiling lovingly when he saw him staring back at him, eyelids falling heavily on his eyes.

He turned the iPad off and placed it on the bedside table, knowing that what Henry really wanted – although he would have never admitted it – was him to tuck him in and turn the light off, so that he would have had an excuse to stop being stubborn and actually give in to sleepiness.

"Nothing that can't wait till tomorrow," Chuck stated. It wasn't anything particularly urgent; he had been simply reading a speech that Nate would have had to make next week. As usual, his best friend had sent him the first draft, so that he could have given him an opinion and, in case, insights on possible corrections. "Now," he started removing cushions from behind Henry's back, to make him finally lie down. "It's time for you to sleep, young Bass."

Henry pouted. "But I'm not sleepy," he attempted to protest in a feeble voice. Though, when Chuck carefully covered him with the duvet and fixed his pillow, lying down as well, the kid crawled towards him, getting closer and snuggling up to him, a sign that he was most likely going to fall asleep within the next ten minutes.

"Then you could just rest your eyes," Chuck proposed, reaching out to the  _abat-jour_  to switch it off. He rolled on one side and wrapped an arm around Henry. "And tell me what do you want to do tomorrow. Mom will be home by night, so we'll have all day to go wherever you like."

Even if he couldn't see him in the dark, Chuck knew that his son had smiled pleased at the thought of having the chance to decide how they were going to spend their Saturday.

"We could visit uncle Nate," said Henry, after having taken some seconds to wonder, turning to face his father and cling to his neck. Getting comfortable in the position he preferred to sleep, he placed his head on Chuck's chest, right under his shoulder, using it as a pillow. "We haven't seen him today. He didn't come for dinner."

Distinguishing a slight hint of annoyance in his son's last remark, Chuck smirked amused. Henry was so accustomed to seeing his uncle almost every day that, when he didn't, he used to get inevitably offended. He was very set in his habits, something he had surely learnt from Blair.

"He didn't because we were at grandma's," Chuck reminded him promptly, repressing a chuckle. "But I'm sure he'll be more than thrilled to spend the day with us tomorrow."

Henry didn't answer; he limited himself to heave a lazy, satisfied sigh, rubbing his cheek against his father's pajamas. Chuck, interpreting it as an indication that his son had eventually decided that he wanted to sleep, inhaled a deep breath, closing his eyes. He was sleepy as well.

He felt tranquil, blessed with a reassuring sense of warmth and intimacy. There was no doubt that he missed Blair, but he still couldn't help but feeling thankful for that time passed solely in his son's company. Ever since the beginning of his journey as a parent, Chuck had always needed moments with Henry that were exclusively theirs, minutes or hours when nothing but them existed and that he cherished jealously; having a couple of days to spend alone with him had been somehow restoring.

Chuck was already drifting into unconsciousness when he felt Henry slightly moving in his grasp. His eyelids snapped open and he focused on his breathing; it was calm, but not as even and deep as it usually was when he was asleep.

Knowing that his son was exhausted and that he needed his regular hours of rest, Chuck started stroking his back gently, in a way that usually helped him sleep when he couldn't. After some minutes Henry still didn't seem to want to give up. Chuck heard him sighing heavily as he clung tighter to his neck, the last of a series of hints that told him that the kid was about to call him.

"Dad," Henry indeed whispered a few seconds later, sounding, in spite of his tiny voice, much more awake than what Chuck expected. "Are you sleeping?"

"Not yet," Chuck answered quietly. "Are you okay?" he asked right after, pulling him closer, worried that Henry might not be feeling well. Rapidly, he brought his hand to his forehead to check if he felt warm, but he seemed to be fine. "Are you chilly?" he then questioned, aware that his son was as sensitive to cold as he was. "Do you want another blanket?"

"No," Chuck sensed Henry's head moving against his chest, as he shook it. "I'm okay. I just want to ask you something," Henry paused, his voice sounding hesitant. "Can I?"

"Of course you can," Chuck reassured him as he kept on caressing his back, frowning perplexed at the unusual insecurity he had perceived in his words. Henry never asked for permission before interrogating him about anything. "You can ask me anything."

Pensively toying with the buttons of his father's pajama, Henry took his time to speak, letting a few seconds go by as he probably wondered about the question he was going to give voice to. He then heaved a longer sigh. "What was grandfather Bart like?"

Immediately, Chuck's blood ran cold. Henry had pronounced the words in a small voice and yet, in the dense silence that followed them, Chuck thought he could hear them echo in his mind, louder and sharp, somehow violent. They frightened him deeply.

He understood in that moment that he wouldn't have been able to run away from the question this time. His son had asked something specific and direct, nothing that he could escape with an evasive comment as he had done in many other occasions before – last of all that morning. He was naked in front of Henry's unintentionally cruel curiosity, small and vulnerable under the weight of his own fragilities. He felt defenseless, suddenly overcame with a shattering wave of weakness.

Chuck pursed his lips. He realized, as he attempted to speak, that his mouth was completely dry. He took a deep breath. "What do you want to know about him?" he managed to ask, trying to keep his voice steady, to give himself the time to stall and ponder over the words he was going to say.

"Was he nice?" Henry asked, interest making his tone vibrant. He pulled himself out of Chuck's hold and sat up again. "Do you think he would have liked me?"

Again, Chuck's heart constricted. His son sounded so genuinely hopeful and the idea of breaking that enthusiasm and letting him down made him feel powerless. Every answer that came to his mind was bitter and surely unacceptable for Henry, who had known nothing but love and warmth, from him and from his whole family.

His son was used to being adored and spoiled with affection. What was he supposed to tell him? That his grandfather would have probably hated him like he had hated him?

The thought terrified him and disgusted him in equal measure. He felt the instinctive need to defend Henry and wondered, for a split second, if telling him the truth – or at least part of it – was the right thing to do. Yet, although lying would have been easier, Chuck couldn't bring himself to. It wasn't right; he had been raised on lies and there was no way he would have inflicted on Henry the same lack of respect. He couldn't deny him a sincere answer.

He wished, at this point almost desperately, that Blair was there. He had always thought she would have been with him when the moment to have that conversation had arrived, mostly because he had never pictured himself as capable of doing it without her holding his hand and giving him the strength to. He didn't have it or, at least, he didn't he think he did, but he knew that he still had to collect every grain of it that he could find in himself to give Henry what he needed.

He had understood a long time ago, the moment his son was born, that he had no control on when things happened. The little person next to him was a constant surprise; he had his timing and his necessities and Chuck was aware that it was his responsibility to respect them. Being a father and being a good one also implied that he had to be ready, even when he wasn't. This case was no exception; Henry wanted him to explain and that's what he had to do, no matter how difficult and hurtful it was to him.

Slowly, Chuck sat up as well. He put his arm back around Henry's shoulders and hugged him tight to himself. "Henry, there are some things I want you to know about your grandfather."

His son nodded, silently telling him that he was ready to listen, and Chuck felt thankful that the room was dark, because he wouldn't have been able to say anything if he had seen Henry's eyes fixed on him, staring at him with his typical lively curiosity.

He took another deep breath and swallowed. "He was a very cold, distant man," that half-truth sounded as clashing as a lie to his ears and his lips unconsciously curled in revulsion. He forced himself to keep on. "He didn't really know how to show love."

"He didn't like hugs?" Henry asked, a bit confused. "Not even yours?"

"No, he didn't," Chuck sighed heavily, struggling not to show how he really felt. He didn't want Henry to notice that he was upset, it would have scared him. "He didn't have much time for me. He was very busy. He worked a lot and he was hardly ever home."

"But," Henry paused and Chuck knew he had frowned, more disoriented. "You are very busy too. Mom always says that you work too much and that you're so stressed," he objected, "but you always find time."

Chuck felt completely worn out, drained of all of his energies. He didn't know how to make his son understand something so distant from his reality. Henry had never experienced anything similar; Chuck had an extremely full and demanding life, but he had given him stability and made sure that in no occasion he felt abandoned. He had always put him first and Henry knew it, he perceived it.

His son couldn't comprehend his words, simply because he couldn't relate to them in any way; they must have sounded completely absurd to him. Somehow, that realization made Chuck feel relieved, allowing him to breathe slower.

"I do," he said, his voice raising a bit. "Of course I do. You and your mom are my priority, Henry," the statement came out firm and full of certainness, as if he had put all of his conviction into pronouncing it, letting it reveal its unquestionable truth. "But your grandfather wasn't like me. He thought that there were more important things than family, like his job and success."

"Didn't it make you sad?" Henry questioned, after a few seconds of silence.

_Sad_. The simplicity of the word made him smile bitterly. "It used to make me very sad," Chuck admitted and, although that sentence gave only a vague idea of what he had suffered, he hoped that Henry could still feel the honesty in his confession. "Sometimes it still does. But I have you now and I have your mom and many other people that love me. You all make me happy and make my life complete."

"But are you sad now?" Henry asked, unsure.

His tone had lowered and become more delicate, a changing of attitude which told Chuck that, in spite of all his efforts not to let it happen, his son had still sensed his distress. Amazed by the innate empathy that Henry had towards him, Chuck squeezed him tighter in his embrace. "I'm not," he said, determined not to make him feel guilty about what he had asked. "I'm never sad when I'm with you."

Suddenly, as if he had felt what Chuck had tried to hide with those words and his need, Henry moved swiftly in his grasp to reach his lap and clung his arms to his neck once again. "I love you, daddy," he declared, his head plunged into his father's shoulder. "You are the best dad in the world."

An unaware smile, this time moved and genuine, curved Chuck's lips. "I love you too," he bowed his head to place a kiss on the top of his son's head. "I love you more than anything," he felt the necessity to add, tears pricking his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his hand.

Overwhelmed, he took his time to breathe Henry in, shutting his eyelids and letting that contact tranquilize him a little. He spent some minutes listening to the kid's breathing becoming deeper and regular.

"You need to sleep now, Henry," he said after a while, his voice made raspy by the lump in his throat, realizing that his son was falling asleep in his arms. "It's late and we're both tired."

Henry groaned in response. "Okay," he mumbled after. He let Chuck free him from his grasp and crawled back to his side, lying down again as his father covered him with the comforter. As soon as Chuck laid down as well, Henry cuddled up against him. Cozying up under the duvet, he rested his head on his chest once more and took a deep breath. "Goodnight, dad."

"Goodnight," Chuck whispered, trapping him in a tight hug. Soon, Henry was soundly asleep.

Chuck, wide awake, stayed still, staring at the ceiling and trying to breathe in and out slowly to make his heart stop racing. He hadn't felt that fragile in years.

* * *

The room was wrapped in an impenetrable silence, broken only by the almost indiscernible sound of his fingertips drumming restlessly on the glass – the fifth of the night – squeezed in his tight hold. With a slight yet slow gesture Chuck made the liquor lazily whirl, focusing his eyes on the amber liquid. He didn't drink it; he limited himself to caress the cold crystal with his thumb, as if guiding it to his lips to take a sip was too much of an effort.

He had lost the count of how many hours had passed since he had gotten up and walked to his home office; he only knew that, at some point, after having spent an indefinite time pacing back and forth, he had let himself fall on the chair behind his desk, utterly weary.

Chuck was known for being a solid person. The façade he presented to the world let firmness and authority show through, in a way that was intimidating for many and profoundly reassuring for his loved ones. Yet, in that moment, he felt nothing but pathetic, angry at himself for not being able to stop the flowing of his thoughts.

They didn't speak about his power and they surely didn't speak about his strength; they were a mere wave of hurtful memories that faced him with his weakness, with his inability to protect himself from them. They held a pain that came from wounds that weren't going to heal. He might have buried it deep down inside him, but he couldn't deny its existence and having to dig it up to share it with Henry, even if just superficially, had left him beaten.

Chuck couldn't stand it; he was a happy man, his life was blissful, filled up with joy and success but, nevertheless, the thought of a dead man he had once called father still managed to make him feel irreparably broken.

That consideration, the last of a long sequence of self-pitying reflections, caused him to eventually decide to drain the contents of the glass in a single sip. He let the scotch burn down his throat and closed his eyes for a moment, seeking for rest and relief from the headache he was gripped by.

When he opened them again, his gaze was irremediably drawn by the phone he had placed on the desk. A sudden feeling of shame made him glace down. He had promised himself that he wasn't going to use it to call Blair, that he could silence his angst by his own, but, at that point, he was simply too tired for that fight. Heaving a heavy, resigned sigh, he reached for his cellphone and looked at the screen.

The clock's white numbers marked 1:43 am and he felt reassured knowing that at least he could phone her without waking her; it was early morning in Paris and his wife was probably having breakfast before heading to the airport. He mechanically dialed her number and brought the cellphone to his ear.

Blair answered after two rings. "Chuck," she pronounced his name with questioning alarm. "It's…" he couldn't help but smile briefly when she paused, imagining her checking on her watch in a rapid, nervous movement, her eyebrows raising in worry. "It's almost two in the morning there. Is Henry okay?" she asked immediately. "Are you okay?"

"Henry is perfectly fine," Chuck answered promptly, hushing up her most urgent concern. He heard her sighing with relief. "He's been peacefully sleeping in our bed since 10."

"But you're awake," she stated. Her voice was suspicious. "And you sound exhausted. What's wrong?"

Chuck felt the impulse to answer " _Nothing_ ". He wondered for a moment about how easier it would have been to simply ask about her, letting the sound of her voice distract him and keep him focused on picturing all of her expressions in his mind as she spoke.

Still, he couldn't hide from her. She wouldn't have believed him and, honestly, he didn't even want to; he needed to talk to her because he knew she would have understood. Giving in to the necessity to feel her close, emotionally connected to him, was the only thing that would have made him feel better eventually. Trying to resist it wasn't worth it. It was pointless pain.

He inhaled a deep breath. "Henry asked about Bart," he said slowly, struggling not to let the words get stuck in his throat; they came out in a weary whisper. "He wanted to know how was he like."

Blair gasped – so faintly that he barely distinguished the tense sound – and then turned silent. Chuck thought that he could see her lowering her eyes and hesitantly pursing her lips, trying to figure out what to say. "What did you tell him?" she asked anyway after some seconds.

Chuck's hand clenched around the empty glass he was still holding. "I told him that he was a cold person and that he was always too busy," his words drifted into an ironic, bitter laugh. "Interesting way to put it, isn't it?"

"It's not a lie," she said right away, her voice calm and firm in a clear attempt to reassure him.

He shook his head. "Well, it's not the truth either," he retorted sharply, cringing at the thought. The truth, he wondered as he heard her holding her breath, was far from what he had told Henry.

The truth was cruel and senseless to the point that he himself still couldn't give it a meaning – and the fact that, somehow, that impossibility left a sense of emptiness in his chest made him close his hand into a fist, intolerant towards his own latent need to find an answer.

"You gave him the best answer you could give him, Chuck," Blair insisted, although her tone had become more delicate. "He's just a kid. You couldn't possibly tell him —"

"I know," he uttered abruptly, without letting her finish the sentence. "I know," he then repeated more calmly and slowly, realizing that he had spoken too harshly. He sighed. "And I didn't. I told him that my father didn't know how to demonstrate affection, but we both know that the hard fact is that he hated me," he hesitated, breathing in, "without a reason."

Chuck thought of Henry. He thought of the immense, unconditional love he had for his son – something so deep and so powerful that he wouldn't have been able to put it into words – and his father's atrocity, the brutality of what he had done, appeared clearer than ever in front of him, in a furious succession of vivid reminiscences.

He couldn't feel anything but hatred. It wasn't even angry loathing anymore, it was a cold, sharp disgust and acrimony that oppressed him every time life forced him to think back and remember.

On the other side of the phone, Blair swallowed laboriously. She took a long breath before answering. "I wish I could contradict you, but I can't," her voice was shaky and he realized that tears must have filled her eyes. "He was an horrible man. But he can't hurt you anymore if you don't let him."

"I don't and I won't," Chuck answered immediately, articulating the words severely. He pronounced them as a hard imperative, with the same way he would have used to give an order. It was, indeed, one to himself.

Still, after, Chuck felt like he couldn't add anything. He stopped talking and waited for his wife to say something, overcome with neediness. He hated the fact that he couldn't touch her; her hands had always had the power to calm him down and he would have given anything to have them cupping his cheeks in that moment.

"You've grown into a great man in spite of all the pain he caused to you," Blair broke his silence. Her voice was tactful and, even just through the phone, Chuck could sense the pride her moved tone candidly revealed. "And into an amazing father. You've built a relationship with your son that is based on honesty and trust. You could have lied to him, but instead you chose to be as sincere and as open as possible, despite how hard it must have been for you."

It had been, in fact, terribly hard. Yet, Chuck realized as he let Blair's words sink in and comfort him, it had also been an aware choice; the choice to give Henry the chance to know him. He had been brave enough to let him see a part of himself he usually preferred to keep hidden. He had put Henry's needs before his own and he had done it with effort, but not with hesitance. The sense of anguish in his chest was worth it; he could endure it if it meant that he hadn't failed his son.

The thought made him feel better and he sighed, relaxing the grasp around the glass. He let it go, leaving it on the tabletop, and undid the fist he had clenched his hand into. "It would have been easier with you here," he confessed, leaning his head against the seatback and letting out a relieved breath. "But it seems that timing is not our son's strong suit either."

Blair, probably realizing the change in his mood, lightly chuckled at that statement. "Don't blame me, he got that from you," she said and Chuck closed his eyes, enjoying the amusement in her tone. It felt warm, an immediate reminder of the completeness of his life. "I'm sorry I wasn't there, but you still managed gracefully. Give yourself some credit, Chuck. You're stronger than you think."

Her last remark made him frown and couldn't help but snorting. "Hardly," he commented tiredly. "Henry sensed my vulnerability while I was telling him about Bart," he explained in a low voice, glancing down. "I tried not to let him notice, I didn't want to upset him, but he felt it anyway."

"Of course he did," from her affectionate tone, Chuck knew Blair was smiling now, one of those serene smiles that curled her lips whenever she talked about him and Henry, as if their closeness intensely fulfilled her. "He may not always understand you, but he knows you," she said and a shy smile spread across his face as well. "You don't have to be ashamed of your weaknesses. Henry doesn't need you to be strong all the time, he just needs you to be you."

Later, staring at his sleeping son, Chuck wondered about those words, understanding their most significant sense and their truth; choosing to let Henry in, talking to him heart-to-heart and being sincere and about who he was, meant giving himself the chance to be loved and trusted in return. It was a reason to feel lucky and, most of all, a reason to feel happy.

 

" _But the ghosts that we knew_  
will flicker from view  
and we'll live a long life."  ***1**

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Mumford And Sons, Ghosts That We knew.
> 
> [2] Writing this fanfiction has been a challenge. It took me three months, a lot of effort and a lot of hours spent trying to figure out the best way to deal with such a delicate topic. I'm happy that I managed to finish it because more than once, writing it, I thought that I wasn't good enough. I have to thank my amazing Daphne ( WeirdDaph on twitter) for giving me the moral support and the strength to believe in myself and not to give up. She also kindly corrected it. This one-shot wouldn't have existed without her.
> 
> [3] English is not my language, I'm Italian. I apologize for possible mistakes. If you have any questions feel free to contact me


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